Ilse and Oda, red-faced, giggle over a note that they decipher together in a hidden corner of the locker room.
"Dear, one and only Oda," they read, "I have befriended Eva von Brettner. We only talk about you . . ."
They both burst into loud, shrieking laughter.
"Ilse, they became friends just to talk about me. Too funny, isn't it?"
And Ilse, "How long has little Eva had a crush on you?"
"Oh God, I don't know! But she's really great, I tell you. She gives me presents every day. I have no idea where she got the money from. Yesterday I found a silk handkerchief with perfume in my bed. The day before yesterday, a bar of chocolate. Pretty generous, isn't she?"
"Keep reading."
"So, 'It's so terribly sad that you're not kind to me at all. Please, come into the corridor outside the boot room just once in the evening before you go to bed, like the other night . . .'"
"What was that?"
"Oh, I happened to be walking past and she ambushed me while I was getting my boots."
"Yes, and . . . ?"
Ilse is excited, but just as things are about to get interesting, an energetic, "Children, what are you doing?" makes them both jump. Fräulein von Bernburg is standing in front of them, and with are blood-red faces they're trying to hide the letter.
"Give it to me, Oda!" comes icily from Fräulein von Bernburg's suddenly very narrow mouth.
Oda hesitates.
"Well, how long should I wait?" Curious children crowd around the entrance. Lela stands leaning against her locker with wide eyes and—without realising it—holds Edelgard's hand tightly.
"Well, will it be soon?"
Finally, Oda decides to hand over the crumpled letter. Fräulein von Bernburg takes it in her hand and—without even looking at it—tears the paper into many small shreds. She only looks at the children standing in front of her, and with them, everyone breathes a sigh of relief.
"Take this and put it into the waste-paper bucket!" She hands Oda the scraps. "And remember this once and for all, writing letters between you children is strictly forbidden."
She turns and leaves. Lela's tension subsides.
"Edelgard, that was wonderful! She's a gentlewoman! She doesn't read other people's letters. If it had been Bunny or Mademoiselle! They would have read it with pleasure. But she—she doesn't want to know."
And Edelgard nods her head thoughtfully.
"Terribly decent—that's what she is."